The Handyman

by Susan Finlay

  Dripping a trail on the floor, he walked up to the reception desk, a walnut counter with glossy stain that looked chipped and worn, and said, “Bonjour, Madame.”

  She nodded, studying the drowned rat standing there. “Vous Désirez?”

  “Uh, Bonjour,” he said. “Parlez-vous anglais?” Geez, the French words were marbles in his mouth.

  “Non.”

  Oh crap. He took a deep breath and blew it out, then pulled out of his pocket the phrasebook he’d bought on his second day in Mythe. He glanced down at the page about lodging. “Uh, je voudrais . . . une chamber salle d’eau.”

  She smiled, probably at his atrocious pronunciation. “One night only?”

  “Huh? Oh, you do speak some English.” She probably figured her English was better than his French and she was probably right. His face grew hot. “I don’t know how many nights. Not yet. Is that a problem?”

  A man came up behind her and said, “American?”

  Josh nodded.

  “The American working for Paulette Lapierre?”

  Yes, no, how was he supposed to answer that? “Uh, well, sort of. I’m Joshua Clayton.”

  “Paulette is driving you crazy?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head. She turned momentarily and exchanged glances with the man out of the corner of her eye. She had short white-blonde hair and wore a tan suit; Josh’s best guess was that she was around his great-aunt’s age—around early-to-mid sixties, trim, probably nice looking in her younger years.

  “Not really, no. It’s just—well, I don’t know if I’m staying in France. Got a fiancé and job back home in the U.S.” Okay, that was stretching it since he wasn’t sure he had either anymore, but it wasn’t a flat-out lie.

  The man looked at least ten years older than the woman, with gray hair and wearing a dark gray suit, not the stylish kind of suit that Vanessa’s dad wore, but a slightly tattered suit that matched the condition of the building. He smiled and said, “We can rent you a room for as long as you need. Our hotel is more comfortable than a troglo, I can assure you.” He motioned for the woman to get a key and registration papers. “I am Domenic Laroche and this is my wife, Claudine. We are the proprietors of this hotel.”

  “Nice to meet you both. Sorry about my appearance. I got soaked by the storm on my way down from the troglo.”

  They both nodded and smiled, then gave each other a look he couldn’t decipher.

  After he filled out the registration paper and handed it to the woman, she said, “Comptant ou carte bleue?”

  “Uh, what?”

  “Pardon, will you pay in cash or credit?”

  “Credit.” He felt heat rise up the back of his neck. Oh, hell, shoulda studied French in school. He figured they’d laugh and have fun gossiping at his expense as soon as he was out of earshot.

  Upstairs, setting his wallet, keys, cell phone, and pocket knife on the bedside table, he peeled off his soaked clothes, wrung them out over the shower and laid them out to dry. Hustling into the shower and letting the heavenly warm water soothe his body and warm him up, he began to relax. After enjoying the refreshing shower for longer than he probably should have, he dried off and wrapped a towel around himself. It was going to be a while before his clothes dried off enough to put them back on. He plopped down on the bed, his hands behind his head.

  What was he supposed to do now? Go back to the U.S. and act as though everything was okay? Uh, no. Go back to Paulette and apologize for not trusting her, for digging into her past, for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong? That didn’t seem fruitful either.

  He rolled onto his side, wanting to escape from thinking, but the nagging thoughts regarding Paulette persisted. Was there really something in her past that needed digging into? All that money hidden in the mattress; who did that sort of thing? He didn’t recognize the currency. What kind of money was it, anyway? Damn, why hadn’t he looked closely? It wasn’t Euros—those varied in size and color a lot. If the notes were French Francs, they wouldn’t be worth much today, except to a collector. As of February, 2012, French Francs were no longer legal tender. Something he’d learned during his training at the bank and which he’d thought was nothing more than trivia. Huh, who woulda thought it would mean something to him now?

  That begged yet another question. How old were the notes? Damn, where was his head last week? If he’d checked, he would have a better idea who put them there—or at least when. Hmm. Paulette had said she learned to speak English in the U.K., but she also said she’d traveled all over the world. And what about the wars? Could she or her parents have hidden money from the Nazi’s during the occupation? He’d heard stories about old people hiding money because they didn’t trust banks. He’d thought it was a cliché, but maybe there was something to it.

  Still didn’t explain where the money came from.

  Gotta stop thinking like a banker. I’ve seen too many Suspicious Activity Reports about money laundering, embezzling, drug trafficking, and terrorist funding. Geez. He rubbed his hands over his face. Maybe it was time to give up on this hiding away in France to cool down, and go back to California. At least there he had a pretty good understanding of the people in his life and knew where he stood with them. Foreigners were becoming more foreign to him than he’d thought possible.

  Going back home didn’t mean he had to forgive anyone, did it? First thing in the morning he’d make an airline reservation and get the hell out of France. He closed his eyes and tried to relax to get some sleep. Then his cell phone rang. Sighing, he picked up the phone and checked the caller ID. His father. Damn, damn, damn.

  He rejected the call, but his father immediately called again. This time, Josh answered. “What do you want?”

  “Son, we need to talk this out. We can’t let one little mistake come between us.”

  Josh gnashed down on his lower teeth. If his father were standing in front of him, he would punch the old man in the gut. “I don’t consider it a little mistake. If you do, then we have nothing to talk about.”

  “Your mother’s forgotten about it already. Why can’t you let it go?”

  “What did you do? Buy her a new car? Promise her it would never happen again—the way you did a dozen times before?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s different this time. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  He clicked ‘end’ on his phone and powered it down. His dad would never change. Why should he? He got away with doing whatever he wanted? Same with Vanessa.

  Unwanted images of that morning in Paris came flooding back. He’d gone out for a run while Vanessa supposedly had gone shopping with her parents and Josh’s mother. At the time, he’d smiled, considering himself lucky to get out of another shopping excursion, and invited his father to go with him. His father had declined, saying he had some computer work to do and thought he’d get it out of the way while he had the time. It made sense, and Josh hadn’t really expected him to go along, since they hadn’t run together in five years.

  After his run and his shower, Josh had changed into his new clothes and trotted down the hall to his parent’s hotel room, a large three-room suite. He didn’t bother knocking. His father was supposed to be alone, only he wasn’t.

  Josh’s mouth gaped open and he clamped his hand over it. His father and Vanessa were tangled together in the king-size bed. He died inside. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Felt like throwing up.

  Something gave him away, though, because they abruptly pulled apart and wrapped themselves in sheets, staring at him. Vanessa climbed down from the bed, grabbing a blanket, dragging it behind her, and moved toward him, her arms extended. His father just sat there looking guilty. Josh somehow got his legs to move and backed away from her, turned, and ran out the door. He couldn’t remember if he slammed it or left it hanging open.

  Sometime later, after wandering along the sidewalks near the hotel, his head still reeling, his emotions colliding, he had returned to his parents’
room. His mom and Vanessa’s parents were there with his dad and Vanessa, both fully dressed now, and it looked like they were all getting ready to go out to lunch together, as if nothing had happened.

  Angry and devastated, he had yelled, “What is wrong with you people? Don’t you know what’s going on? Geez. No, I guess they wouldn’t tell you, would they?”

  Everyone just stared at him.

  “I caught dad and Vanessa together an hour ago. Right here. In Mom and Dad’s bed. What excuse did they give you for not going shopping? This is just sick!”

  His mother looked at her husband, then down at the floor. She hadn’t been surprised. She knew.

  Vanessa’s parents did likewise with their daughter. Apparently, they all knew and had shrugged it off. Her father said, “That’s the French in Vanessa’s genes. You’ll have to forgive her. It’s part of who she is and she can’t control it. It’s like those photographs you take all the time—you love photography. It’s a hobby, but also a part of who you are. You can’t help yourself.”

  Josh had stormed out of the room and headed straight for the room he shared with Vanessa, found the want ad for the handyman position, and made the arrangements. He took his clothes with him, but left his expensive camera, the one that he’d spent weeks researching and shopping for before buying, behind. Somehow, the thought of carrying that camera containing photos he’d taken of Vanessa and her family, his family, their trip in Paris, especially after the comments from her father, left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Damn it. Shoulda just deleted the photos and brought the camera. Can’t do anything right.

  Now he was stuck in an old hotel room with nothing but one set of wet clothes. No telling what Vanessa did with his camera. For that matter, he didn’t know what happened to any of his belongings. She might have dumped his stuff from their apartment as soon as she got back to California to make room for the next chump.

  He still had stuff at the troglo, but would Paulette let him back in to retrieve his duffel bag? Maybe, but he’d have to wait until morning when the hill wasn’t muddy, assuming it stopped raining and gave the mud a chance to dry a bit. He could head up there before he made his airline flight reservations.

  His shoulders tensed like vise grips. What the hell did people want from him?

  He got up and strode over to the window. Thank God the rain seemed to have stopped. The sun pierced through the ceiling of clouds creating a shaft of light, shining at an angle toward the center of town. Isabelle’s bakery was there. Maybe it was a sign he should go and talk to her. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The bakery was closed at this time of day. What was he thinking? It was already closed when she brought food to him and Paulette. He ran his hand through his hair. It was almost dry and felt like a rat’s nest. Too curly. This always happened when he didn’t comb it while still wet. He sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed.

  Isabelle had given him her phone number, but that too was back at the troglo right where he’d left it—on the dresser in his bedroom. The ground was way too muddy to go back up there now.

  He pulled on damp clothes and damper sneakers, grabbed his wallet and keys, and left his hotel room, leaving his cell phone and pocket knife on the nightstand.

  “Hello, Monsieur Laroche.”

  The old man looked up from his chair behind the counter. “Allo, how can I help you?

  “Is there a clothing store in Mythe? Mine aren’t drying fast enough. The rest of my clothes are in the troglo up on the hill. Too muddy to get back there right now.”

  He smiled and nodded. “There is indeed. It’s right down the street from here, directly behind the bakery.” He glanced down at Josh’s sneakers and added, “A shoe shop is also next door to it.”

  “Thanks.” Josh turned to leave.

  “How is Madame Lapierre’s health? I haven’t seen her in months. Used to see her at one of the cafés sometimes.”

  Josh stopped and gazed at the old man. Younger than Paulette, but he might know about her past. Worth talking to the guy.

  “She’s okay, I guess. As well as can be expected.”

  “So, are you going back up to the troglo?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, not me. My wife knows that area. She grew up in Mythe and had an aunt and uncle who lived in one of the troglos. They’re long gone.”

  “Has your wife lived here her whole life?”

  “No, she moved away for college many years ago. Paris. That’s where we met.”

  “Ah. What brought you back here?”

  “Her parents owned this hotel. They passed away ten years ago. She inherited the hotel and decided to run it. I thought why not?”

  “Sure. Great opportunity to be an entrepreneur.”

  He smiled.

  “Does your wife know a lot about the history of the town and the people?”

  “She likes to think so. Tells lots of stories, some of them rather funny.”

  “Are you talking about me?” his wife said, coming out of a private room.

  “Monsieur Clayton wants to know if you are familiar with our town and its residents.”

  “Oh, oui, I grew up listening to stories told by my grandparents and great-grandparents. What would you like to know?”

  They conversed for a couple hours, after which, Josh thanked the Laroches and rushed out the door, trying to make it to the clothing shop before they closed for the day. Of course his clothes were dry by then, but looked terrible. Madame Laroche, Claudine as he was instructed to call her, had some hilarious stories. She’d also given him a couple of names that might be helpful in the search for Paulette’s family—that is, if he decided to proceed with that, which at the moment was doubtful.

  At the store, he bought a complete outfit, his first French clothes bought without advice or prompting from anyone. If he’d gone shopping with his mother that fateful day, he would never have known about the affair and he wouldn’t be here now buying clothes. Talk about irony.

  After taking his old clothes back to his hotel room, he meandered around town and found a restaurant that looked busy but not too popular. He studied the menu, which could have been in Greek for all he knew, and ordered something by pointing at it. He didn’t know what it was and had no idea how to pronounce it. As he sat there waiting for his food, he watched and listened to other customers. A young woman flirted with two men at a nearby table. Josh only caught a few snippets of their conversation, and only understood half of what he heard, but the body language—the tilting of her head, flicking her hair over her shoulder, touching her lip with an index finger, the well-practiced fake laugh—he’d seen it all before. Vanessa could have taught a class on it.

  On his way back to his hotel room, he watched an elderly hunched-over woman walking with a cane in the moonlight. She wobbled across the street. It prompted an image of Paulette sleeping in her chair in front of the TV, a commercial jingle playing in the background while she snored. He pictured her waking up when he shut off the TV, and her trying to get up in her drowsy state and walk up the stairs. She could maybe do it without assistance, but that was iffy—she could fall and break her hip. Josh supposed that was one of the reasons her doctor had insisted she have someone stay with her.

  He glanced up the hill, shaking his head. Oh, hell.

  Trudging toward the hill in his new sneakers and clothes, he hoped the mud had dried enough. In the dark it was hard to see where to step to avoid the gooiest ground. When he finally reached the troglo, he stopped in front of the door and lifted one foot and then the other to check for mud. Back into the grass he went and rubbed the bottoms of his shoes back and forth in the grass until most of the mud was gone.

  He opened the front door and stepped inside. The TV was blaring. Paulette was awake and looked over at him right away.

  “Oh, Josh-you-ah, you came back!” She jumped out of her chair, tumbling all three puppies onto the floor. They picked themselves up and dashed toward Josh,
crossing in front of Paulette and almost tripping her.

  Josh rushed forward and held out his arms, preparing to catch her if she fell. She practically did fall into his arms, well not exactly, but embraced him. The way she looked up at his face, her eyes reminding him again of his grandmother, made him put his arms around her. How thin and frail she was. His eyes filled with tears.

  “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. I thought you went back to America.”

  “Sorry. I shut off my phone. My father called and I didn’t want him to keep calling.”

  “Thank you for coming back to me. I have something important I want to tell you. Come sit down.”

  She waddled back to her chair and eased her body down.

  The puppies wanted to play, literally throwing themselves at Josh’s legs every time he took a step. He stopped, reached down, and picked up one puppy in each hand, holding them against his chest. “Hey, you little minxes. Have you been staying out of trouble?”

  They tried to climb up his chest to reach his face. He tilted his head down and they lavished him with licks. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna put you down now. It’s your sister’s turn.” After hugging the last puppy, he strode to the couch and sat.

  Paulette muted the TV. “I have some good news. You’re going to be the beneficiary of my estate. I made an appointment with my solicitor to draw up a new will.”

  “What? No. You can’t do that, Paulette. I don’t want you to. You have a son. Maybe even grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They should be your heirs.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re listening to gossip. I asked you to leave it alone.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I found out about your son before you got angry at me and threw me out. I’m trying to help you reconnect with him—if he’s still alive. Don’t you want to reconcile with him before it’s too late? I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but—”